


Felix Dies Natalis

by nuritacobarrubias



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, the fluffiest thing I ever wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuritacobarrubias/pseuds/nuritacobarrubias
Summary: And he just fell into the trap.





	Felix Dies Natalis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JaneDoh7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDoh7/gifts).



> Time line: This takes place some years after ‘The Truth’…2004/2005.
> 
> A/N1: First, I’d like to apologize. This piece is old. I wrote this as a challenge for the FBI's Most Unwanted on Livejournal. I don’t even remember when. But I never got to archieve it, so better late than never, and I've decided to move my old works here too, since I'me loving AO3.
> 
> A/N2: The main issue though is to be able to forget those AWFUL two new last seasons (except for a couple of non CC episodes), that for me, aren't canon at all. The XFiles ended in The Truth. I won't even start on the bad those seasons did on my beloved Mulder and Scully... But the Monica Reyes nonsense was like a detraction, an insult, the most OOC thing ever to OOC... So I invite you to my happy place.
> 
> For further explanations, see author’s note at the end.

_A pair of strong arms encircled her waist from behind, forcefully drawing her body to repose on the tempting amplitude of his chest._

_“What the hell are you doing here,” she asked snapping her head to the right, trying to look over her shoulder. Even though her words were aggressively inquisitive, there wasn’t any hint of confusion or surprise in her voice._

_He dismissed her accusation and took the opportunity she had involuntarily given him to nuzzle and kiss nostalgically the left side of her now exposed neck. She couldn’t help but close her eyes shut at the force of the intoxicating sensation; tainted memories and forbidden yearns overcoming her self-imposed armour. “We can’t do this,” she whispered absently, bewilderedly enveloped in the hands of trance._

_Her negative statement only further ignited his passion and determination, for his hands began a journey of their own, sliding sensually in opposite directions on the front of her body. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispered roughly in her ear, boldly defying her false pretexts._

_Her breathing became shallow, dangerously unstable. Not the perfect indication of fruitful resistance. It was an eternal and ethereal struggle between the mind and the heart; like fire and water, life and death. This constant state of fighting herself inflamed within her an indestructible rage directed towards the causer of so much pain, so much pleasure._

_She grabbed his hands, intercepting their daring destination, and liberated herself from the paws of desire. “John, stop,” she commanded, steady but with firmness while she turned around to accentuate her decision with an icy glance._

_Despite the fact that he had predicted her reaction before-hand, he still wasn’t satisfied with the results. His crystal blue eyes were stalking, almost condemning her as the most delectable prey._

_She supported her defiant gaze when he began to get closer._

_A lot closer._

_Unbearably close._

_“I love you, Mon.” It wasn’t the first time he had spoken out loud those precious words, but as time had gone by, it seemed as though their mystical meaning had turned in vain._

_She bit her lower lip, trying to stop her tears to pour out shamelessly; convincing herself of the impossibility. “But it’s not right.” The omnipresent notion of right and wrong._

_In one sudden, clean move he managed to slam her back against the wall - trapping her slim silhouette with his muscled body - extinguishing any idea of escape. “Give me one good reason why,” he hissed sharply against her forehead. He grabbed her right hand with his left one, raising them above their heads and resting the back of her palm on the wall. She fought for air, fixing her hard-lidded eyes on his penetrating stare. Her fingers flexed forward, intertwining their hands._

_They kissed each other furiously, sucked their tongues hungrily, nibbled their lips passionately._

_He let his free hand wander unbridled on her skin. It slid from her neck to her shoulder, slipping with treachery under the thin strap of the black nightgown she was wearing. She moaned into his mouth, to which he could only respond by biting tenderly on her bottom lip. Encouraged by her willing reaction, he lowered his hand to her thigh, only to raise it again - with deliberate slowness - under the fabric of her night attire; drawing it up and up, showing forbidden skin in the process._

_She used her palm to stop him. If he got to touch her like that for one more second, she would be past the point of no return._

_He stopped kissing her, exhaling with difficulty, almost hyperventilating from the raw emotions. His eyes were pleading, praying for her to succumb to what they were both feeling._

_“Is it because of him?” His features registered fury, rage, anger. “That son-of-a-bitch?” He increased the pressure on her, his emotions taking over his body. “I notice how he always finds convenient ways to be alone with you, how he leers at you.” His heaving chest was crashing against her breasts._

_She was getting indignant with his recurring jealousy: how he always threw against her all his repressed anger. “He’s my boss. Don’t forget he’s yours too,” she reproached him, equalling his voice level._

_“Tell me,” he began cockily, “does he make you scream like I do in bed?” She slapped him hard on the face._

_He kept his face to the side, partially because the force of the impact on his cheek was still echoing in his remorse; he knew he had crossed the line. When he looked again at her, he could see controversy in her eyes. “Montana, I’m sorry. I…”_

_She bent and desperately interrupted his apology by capturing his lips again. “Make love to me, Johnavan,” she whispered groggily as she broke the kiss._

_He picked her up while she crossed her legs around his waist. He smiled against her temple as he carried her to the bed._

 

Monica Reyes sighed and suddenly recalled why she had once decided to stay as far away as she could from this kind of literary amusement. But as she had decided to make time and prepare her strategy, she had once again succumbed into one of her old-time addictive hobbies.

Romance novels.

She knew by previous empirical experience, that if she kept reading, she would become irremediably hooked to the story. But she reminded herself she needed a solid cover, so she didn’t really have any other choice than continue the arousing adventures of her favourite duo - Johnavan and Montana.

The characteristic sound of little sandy stones splashed by the tires of a car while slowing down - in order to park - caught her attention from the outside.

 _The show must begin_ , she thought allowing smile to herself for the last time before she acted on her premeditated cruel role.

She liked to play games; mess around with his mind. She knew him so well by now that she had down pat all the steps she should follow to obtain any desired reaction from him. He used to recriminate her that he was being subjected by despotic manipulation.

She simply liked to call it ‘female resources’.

The front door opened to reveal the expected candidate to carry the plan out. “I’m home!” John Doggett greeted while crossing the threshold, decked with all kind of bags and packages. He was received with nothing more than a succinct guttural acknowledgement stemming from the couch of the living room. She didn’t even bother to raise her gaze, acting as a fervours reader devoted to the story and oblivious to anything around her except the book in her hands.

He tried to kick the door closed, which only proved to unbalance the whole strategically formed pyramid in his arms. He began to juggle with the utensils he was inelegantly carrying. “Honey, I need some help here.”

He was met with utter and complete silence.

“Mon?”

Still no answer. He walked cautiously to the kitchen table, where he placed all the stumbling objects. He exhaled relieved the moment he was sure everything was settled nice and safe in a stable surface. He then turned his head to the right, checking what in hell she was doing.

Her lips were silently moving, sailing through the waves of words; building in her head a perfect, clear image of the action taking form in the pages of fiction. She detained her lips from painting words in the air and took a moment, as if to memorize the exact place she was going to take a brief pause at. She raised her head a little disoriented. “Hmmm, what?” She asked as if she had just been awakened from a disturbing nap.

“Nothing,” he started defeated. She resumed her activity. “Never mind now…” he said almost to himself. He wasn’t angry, he was perplexed. Was she really that distracted? Or…had she completely forgotten? How could she? It wasn’t very common of her… He remained there, flabbergasted in place, as if giving her a little more time to react or to rectify.

When he was fully convinced that she wouldn’t realize it on her own, he decided to launch some conversational tips. “You’re home early…” He stated with his best try of nonchalant voice chat.

“Aha.” There she was, abducted and vigorously retained under captivity in Soap-Opera-Land.

He decided to head towards the living room’s wardrobe to neatly hang in place the suit jacket he was wearing. “Today is…what…Friday?” He improvised as he rolled up the sleeves of his working shirt, allowing himself to become a little more comfortable now he was home.

“Yep.” She couldn’t stop the corners of her lips to slightly move upwards at hearing those words, forming a semi-smile in the process. She didn’t dare to avert her eyes from the lines; so she hoped he hadn’t been able to see her gesture - and in case he had - she hoped he had attributed it as an unconscious reaction caused by an amusing line on the novel.

He was just about to fall into insurmountable frustration, when he distinguished the unmistakable engine that moved his whole life.

She was smiling.

He couldn’t believe it -- his predisposed innocence had driven him to fall once again into one of her traps; and that blessed woman was rejoicing in the sweet cruelty of her success. He smiled to himself; she always managed to keep him guessing.

And he loved her even more for that.

She felt his presence move behind her with innate secrecy; his fingers gently pushing her hair aside from her neck, his preserving lips caressing her sensitive skin.

She grinned, even though he couldn’t see it; and raised one arm, threading her slender fingers with his hair, desperately buried in her neck. “Happy birthday,” she finally conceded with the sweetest of voices.

His amused laugh was muffled against her skin. “Now you have to kiss me as many times as years I’ve reached,” he rasped in her ear. In spite of the shiver that crossed her spine - a derivate of the promising invitation - she burst giggling uncontrollably at his unsubtle innuendo.

She still wanted to carry out the rest of her plan and make him sweat his prize a little more. “No way.” She managed to unravel from his insistent ministrations and raise herself on her knees, turning and changing her position on the sofa to face his imploring eyes for the first time since he’d made his appearance. John held her frame immediately and she placed her arms around his broad shoulders. “That way we’d get stuck in here all night, you old grandpa,” she teased with an amusing tone; her flammable touch; the captivating twinkle in her glance.

He smiled that rare, special smile, the one that conveyed contentment, surprise, fascination, pride, admiration; the one that he only had for her. “You’re gonna’ regret what you just said,” he falsely threatened while slightly bending his head down and raising his eyes up, trying to inject a dose of mock drama to the scene.

With that same glance she involuntarily travelled back in time, to a moment and space not long gone. Something about a housewarming gift, a little stand on M street…

And suddenly, the mere idea of losing him ever again was presented to her as unbearable panic. She had never before shared the events of that fateful day with him, she couldn’t begin to explain what had occurred and he wouldn’t understand it anyway; so she decided to swallow all the re-emerging emotions and simply be grateful for the blessing reality of having him in her arms right now. “I know,” she stated somewhere between a whisper and an inner reflection.

He stared at her suspiciously for awhile, certainly knowing there was something more going on beyond what she intended to show.

She willingly pulled herself out of her dusk reverie and slapped him tenderly on the shoulder. “Anyway, you’d better be hungry because I cooked for the occasion,” she exclaimed cheerfully and began seductively running a finger from his cheek down his chest. “And then, we could always have dessert later in bed...”

He was already devouring her with his voracious, predator stare.

Obviously, they didn’t make it to bed.

 

***

 

A thick cloud of water steam surrounded the bathroom’s atmosphere as Monica let the water jet flow freely; hot water refreshed her ideas. John had already showered before getting into bed after the unforeseen urgency downstairs and their later romantic dinner; and now she had the chance to be alone a couple of minutes to meditate.

He was already in bed when she got out of the bathroom. There was a soft glow stemming from John’s right bedside table lamp, allowing him enough light to read. His back rested comfortably on the head-board of the king-sized bed and he was wearing the reading glasses he rarely used, despite the fact that she said he looked tenderly cute with them on.

She turned off the bathroom’s light and quietly made her way to her side of the bed. She slipped into the welcoming feeling of suave, cool sheets and arranged the pillows to adopt the same posture as John’s. She rested her back on the now quilted head-board, slowly turning her head to look at his features. He was really concentrated reviewing what seemed like boring paperwork. Should she say something now? She slightly bit her lower lip in auto-response.

With renewed determination she reached into her nightstand table’s drawers to retrieve a strange pair of big needles with meters of thread interlaced between them. She started immediately to work with the artefacts at hand.

He sensed something was wrong or, at least, outstanding on the picture of the bedroom, so he turned his head slightly to the left, to observe the last thing he’d ever expect seeing her doing. “Mon,” he started somewhat perplex by what he was witnessing, lowering the glasses from his eyes for a moment. “What are you doing?”

She lightly licked her upper lip, an involuntary side-effect caused by the concentration destined for the designed moves of the current practice. “Knitting,” she responded matter-of-factly.

“Yeah…I can see that…” He left a precaution time for her to elaborate further her very much needed explanation. When nothing came out of her, he expressed the natural question raised in him. “And…why?”

“Well…for instance, it’s pretty relaxing,” she explained contentedly, never taking her eyes off the impossible labyrinths of thread. “You should give it a try.”

He raised one eyebrow surprised and amused by her picturesque suggestion. “Yeah…I should.” And he resumed his previous activity putting his glasses back on place to keep on reading.

He had already tried some of the new-age-eccentric-monica-reyes’ habits, and even though he’d liked the majority of them - he’d never admit that aloud - he could never imagine himself weaving in his precious, scantly free time. He located the place he’d left off and continued his revision while she opened the drawer again.

Suddenly he could not read anymore, for her hands prevented it placing delicately a light object on top of the file.

A cute hand knitted light blue baby bootee.

He was paralyzed; his brain was still processing any further explanation, his eyes stuck on the unexpected emerging object.

“And maybe you could even help me finishing these before we need them,” she whispered softly; brushstrokes of anxiousness, excitement, hope, fear, devotion and love in her colourful voice.

He finally raised his clogged glance to look at her; her eyes were glistening and the dim light accentuated her beautiful expression of anticipation. He couldn’t, for the life of him, bring enough words to his lips that could convey everything he was feeling, so he could only reach out to caress her cheek with the dumbest of joyful faces.

“Happy birthday, John.”

Yes, he could definitely imagine himself weaving.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N3: ‘Felix Dies Natalis’ is Latin and means ‘Happy Birthday.’ This was dedicated to JaneDoh on her birthday, but, hey gal, sorry, I don’t even remember which year!! Am I miserable enough to gift you the same thing for two different birthdays? Yes. But hey, you did tell me you didn't remember this one...so... HAPPY NOT SO SECRET BIRTHDAY!
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback still warms my heart even after all these years.


End file.
